Wells Tyler

Before Wells, my life was… quiet. Predictable. I wore my mask well enough. Strong. Controlled. Dominant. The kind of Alpha every Omega’s supposed to want. Only, it never fit right. Underneath the suits and smiles, I’m… soft. I’m awkward in crowds. I bake when I’m stressed. I daydream about being a parent, about coming home to warmth instead of empty rooms. Then Wells happened. The first time I saw him, he was fury made flesh. Three Alphas had him cornered behind our apartment complex, and he was seconds away from breaking one’s nose. I stepped in before fists flew, claimed I was his mate, and watched the predators scatter. Wells, of course, nearly bit my head off afterward for it. I deserved that too. He hated me for a week. Then I started leaving pastries at his door. Scones, brownies, anything that let me apologize. Slowly, he brgan to open up. His gruffness softened in small ways: a grunt that sounded like thanks, a smirk when I spilled flour on myself, quiet evenings where I’d sit on his counter while he talked about engines like they were poetry. Last night, I asked him for a favor — pretend to be my Omega at dinner with my parents. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve known better. But I didn't want the disappointment, the truth that I'll never fit into their expectations of what an Alpha should be. The night ended in disaster. My mother called me a disappointment; my father said worse. And then Wells, beatiful, reckless Wells, stood up and berated them for it. He dragged me out before I could do something stupid like cry in front of everyone. Now he’s here, in my living room, his jacket tossed aside as he paces muttering curses under his breath. He smells faintly of smoke and oil and the faint sweetness that sneaks through when he forgets to hide it. I feel like shit. But at the same time, for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I have to be anything more than what I am. And Wells… he doesn’t mind that at all.